Best Kept Secrets
by Fire Of The Stars
Summary: There are things in everyone's past that they try to forget. That stick with them no matter what. Things they will never tell a living soul, but eat them up inside. These are just a few of those secrets. Warning: themes of rape, incest, drug abuse, suicid
1. Ginny

Ginny

When she was six years old, she heard her parents arguing.

More correctly, she heard her father yelling at her mother.

She couldn't believe the things he was saying. Calling her fat, disgusting, and other things Ginny couldn't bear to repeat.

And she would never tell anyone about the sickening crack she heard from the top of the stairs, headed down to the kitchen to get a glass of warm milk to help her sleep.

And the next morning, when she saw her mother performing charms on her lovely face, and asked her what she was doing, she was told that Mommy was touching up her rouge.

But Ginny saw the ugly bruise on her cheek.

She tried to forget about that night. Tried to pretend that it had been the first and last time, rather than the first of many. And tried to forget the fact that no one but her seemed to care.

When she was ten years old, something happened that no memory charm could ever erase.

When Ron came into her room in the middle of the night, she thought nothing of it. She figured that he had heard her parents fighting, and, just like her, needed comfort.

So when he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly – almost too tightly – she didn't mind. She burrowed deeper into his arms.

And when he whispered, "I love you Ginny. In ways you will never understand," into her ear, she smiled and said she loved him, too.

And even when he kissed her, she was only slightly uncomfortable, because it was on the lips rather than the cheek like she was used to.

But it wasn't sick. It wasn't disgusting, like when he slid his tongue in between her lips, tangled it with her own as she tried to tell him to stop. But only a muffled noise came out.

It was then that she got scared. It felt like a weight was pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. But she tried to keep her fear in check. This was Ron, she thought, her brother. He would never hurt her.

That thought fled her mind when he crawled on top of her, pinning her down to the mattress. She tried to push him off, but even at the age of eleven, he was much stronger than her. He pushed himself down harder on her, and she felt something hard. Panicked, she bit his tongue. But rather than stop kissing her, he kissed her more insistently.

She felt his hand sliding up the hem if her nightgown and tears gathered behind her eyes.

But she didn't cry , even as he was sliding into her. Even as she felt the pain, like she was being ripped apart. 

When he was done, he pulled back on his pajama pants and told her not to tell anyone.

But he didn't have to tell her. She wouldn't have told anyway.

When he was gone, she curled into a ball and let the tears fall.

She didn't sleep at all that night. She just laid in her bed, now soiled with blood and semen, and sobbed until the sun came up.

When she was eleven, she met Tom.

Tom was perfect. Tall, dark, and handsome.

And he understood her so well.

He listened to her without complaint, and assured her that all her dreams would come true someday.

How did he know, she asked.

He told her that he would make them.

And that was when he showed her his world.

His world was dark, but wonderful.

There were shadows everywhere, but everyone was dancing.

He brought her to a mirror and told her to look. She was reluctant. She knew that she wasn't anything special.

But he insisted, so she looked.

And her breath caught in her throat.

She, Ginny Weasley, was beautiful.

Her limp orange hair fell in magnificent, coppery waves, resting just below her bare shoulders. Her freckles seemed to fit well with her porcelain complexion. Her muddy brown eyes were a shimmering brandy.

Her bare shoulders were creamy white, her collar bones jutting out perfectly. And in the black gown, her stick-thin figure looked amazing.

She turned to look at Tom, and he smiled down at her.

This, he said, is what I can give you. Perfection.

Her eyes traveled back to her reflection, and watched him hang a delicate ruby pendant around her neck.

Here, he promised, he can't touch you.

She didn't ask how he knew. It didn't matter.

And when he took her to bed, she didn't mind. He was gentle compared to Ron, and he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

And when Harry took him away, though she cried, she knew he wasn't gone forever.

And the ruby pendant still hung around her neck.

Ron seemed to know. He seemed to know about all that had happened with Tom.

He brought her a washcloth and told her to wash everywhere Tom had touched.

He wasn't satisfied with the job she was doing, so he took it upon himself.

He scrubbed her skin raw, and then he took her to an empty classroom.

He took her, rough and hard, and she knew he was reclaiming her as his own.

And from then on, every time he saw her with someone else, the punishment got worse.

He gave her a black eye for Michael Corner.

He bruised her ribs for Dean.

When he found out about Draco, he nearly killed her.

And after every beating, after every night that left her bruised and stained with his seed, her mind went back to that first night.

_I love you Ginny. In ways you will never understand._

And she wondered just what kind of love he was talking about.


	2. Hermione

Hermione

When she was eight years old, she discovered magic.

It was simple enough. She stopped her cup of apple juice from spilling as it fell off the table by making it hover in the air until she could get to it.

Her parents put it off to quick reflexes.

That same year, she killed someone.

She was downstairs, watching television, when she heard someone trying to open the back door.

Thinking it was one of her parents who had forgotten their key, she walked to the back of the house and opened the door.

But the person who walked in was no one she knew.

He was a big man, wearing all black, with a smile on his face that she didn't like at all.

He called her cutie and brought out a knife.

She panicked and tried to run, but he pushed her and she fell, stinging her knees on the hard tile floor.

Before she could recover, he flipped her over onto her back. He was kneeling, that smile growing as he looked her over.

He began unzipping his trousers, and she felt confusion and terror pressing in on her.

Before she even understood fully what was going on, he had pushed her plaid skirt up to her waist and yanked her knickers down to her ankles.

And by the time she did understand enough to scream, he was already slamming into her, his fullness stretching her with excruciating pain.

And as she sobbed, she wished that he would die. That that knife laying beside him would plunge itself into his back.

And, to her surprise, that is exactly what it did.

When her parents came home to a dead body on the floor and her crying on the couch, they all agreed not to tell anyone.

That was the only time she had ever seen her father bury a human corpse in their backyard.

When she was thirteen, she fell in love.

She wasn't sure what attracted her to Ron, but something did. She found that she loved everything about him, from his red hair and freckles to the way he had stood up for her to Draco Malfoy in their second year, even the way they argued.

But she knew she had no chance. Not yet. He hadn't seemed to realize that she was even a girl, let alone an attractive one. Not that she considered herself attractive, of course.

One night she saw him leading Ginny to an empty classroom. Confused and curious, she had followed.

When she looked back on it later, she would wish she had minded her own business.

She watched them disappear into the Charms classroom. Furiously trying to figure out the best way to see what they were up to, she finally settled on an x-ray spell.

But what she saw made her physically sick.

Ron was hitting Ginny. In the face, the stomach, the legs. Bruising her, surely. Hurting her, obviously. Drawing blood.

But, to her horror, it didn't stop there.

Ron did to Ginny what that sick man had done to her at age eight.

But no knife stabbed into Ron's back. Nothing intervened to make him stop. It was like he didn't even hear Ginny sobbing.

But the one thing from that night that would never leave her mind was what Ron said when he was finished.

"I love you," he had said. And his voice was so bitter that it made her flinch.

When she was sixteen, she took her first hit of cocaine.

It burned her nostrils, but it made everything go away.

She forgot about Ron, about the things he must have been doing to Ginny at that moment. She forgot that she loved him. That she would never stop. She forgot about Voldemort and the war and that Harry hadn't spoken a word to anyone in over a week.

It made her mind blissfully blank, so blank that she didn't even care that she Slytherin who gave it to her was pushing her head down toward his groin.

Hell, it made her feel so good that she was willing to do whatever he wanted, as long as he promised her more.

That was the night that Hermione Granger gave up her virginity.

When she was nineteen years old, she committed suicide.

She shot up one last time, letting the high wash over her.

But she knew it would end, and that reality would slam down upon her once more.

Ginny Weasley was dead.

Her murderer – her brother, and the man Hermione loved – was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban prison.

Harry had died a few months before. Alcohol poisoning.

There was nothing left for her, and she was ready to let go.

The method was Muggle. A pistol her mother had given her ages ago, to protect herself.

The first shot she ever fired was into her own skull.


	3. Draco

Draco

When Draco was seven, his father came into his room for the first time.

He told him how proud he was, how Draco was turning out exactly as he had planned.

He ran his hand along his son's face, through his fine blonde hair.

And then, the gentleness disappearing from his face as though it had never been there at all, he tore off Draco's pajama pants and pushed him onto his stomach.

Draco barely had time to ask him what he was doing before he had a painful sense of fullness and pressure.

His father had thrust himself into him, and he felt like he was being ripped apart at the seams.

When he was done, Lucius left without a word.

And Draco laid down and went to sleep, like nothing had happened.

When he was twelve, he lost his first Quidditch match to Harry Potter.

He was so mad he couldn't speak. He simply threw his Nimbus Two-Thousand-and-One to the floor of his private room and pouted like a little boy.

And then, to his horror, Lucius Malfoy walked through the door.

He tried to arrange his features into the perfect expression of cold apathy, but he wasn't fast enough, and Lucius saw the disappointment in his face.

"Stop pouting, boy," he barked. "What reason do _you_ have to be disappointed? I'm the one who was humiliated. My son. A _Malfoy. _Losing to a half-blooded fool! I will never hear the end of it."__

He raised his cane and Draco flinched, involuntarily.

"Are you afraid, Draco?"

Draco looked at the floor, but did not speak.

"You should be. You have seen your poor mother after I am through with her. And she has never embarrassed me as you have today."

Draco couldn't hide the anger from his face.

"Does that make you angry? Do you think I am wrong, to beat some sense into that foolish woman?"

Draco bit the inside of his jaw. A second before Lucius smashed his fist against it.

"Answer me when I ask you a question."

"Yes, sir," Draco ground out.

"Does it make you angry when I hit your mother?"

Draco nodded..

"Answer me!"

"YES!"

A smirk spread. across Lucius's face. "Well, now that you have spoken your mind . . ."

And with that, his fist began to rain down on Draco like water. Again, and again, and again he hit him. Until he heard something crack, and Draco felt excruciating pain in his side.

His father had broken his ribs.

Finally, he was satisfied. And like the first night he had raped him, Lucius disappeared without a word.

That was the last time he ever cried.

When he was sixteen, he took Pansy Parkinson's virginity on the leather couch in the Slytherin common room.

She screamed like nothing he had ever heard, and it was hard to believe it was all out of pleasure. Although, maybe he was being a bit rough. But she didn't complain. She didn't even seem to mind the fact that everyone in the whole house could probably hear her cries and moans.

She was good in bed, and her body was magnificent, especially glistening with sweat and rocking with his.

But when it was over, he could hardly bear to look into her eyes, so brightly blue it still amazed him. And when she whispered that she loved him, he swallowed vomit and buttoned up his trousers.

He walked away without another word, reminding him far too much of his father.

That same year, he found Ginny Weasley crying in an empty classroom. Her robes were laying beside her on the floor, and she looked – though he would never admit it – stunning in a simple white, silk nightgown. It clung to her slim curves, and showed more skin than she was probably aware of.

Her characteristic red hair was tangled and wild, hanging around her tear-stained face. She was shaking, but he couldn't tell whether it was from the cold or from her sobs or both.

When he was standing in front of her, she looked up at him, and her eyes were wide with fear and surprise.

"Malfoy?"

Her voice was shaky through the tears, and if she had been trying to make it sound angry, she had failed miserably.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice soft with concern, although he didn't know where it was coming from.

She opened her mouth to answer and her crying became more violent. Through the hiccups and sobs, he made out the name "Ron."

He spent a moment in silence, trying to figure out just what the hell her pathetic brother had to do with anything. And then he looked her over, and felt his stomach twist.

She was bruised, from head to toe. There was dried blood under her nose, and the way her legs were drawn up tightly to her chest . . .

"Oh, gods," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "What the fuck has that sick bastard done?"

She closed her eyes tightly, her fingernails beginning to dig into the skin of her arms as she continued to cry. She had drawn blood before he thought to stop her. He held her hands tightly in his own, trying desperately to warm them. They felt like ice.

Without asking her permission, he moved forward and wrapped his arms around her. She stayed tense for the longest time, but finally her crying subsided and she relaxed – almost collapsed – into his arms. A few minutes later, he felt her returning the embrace, her hands clutching the fabric of his robes.

That was the night Draco Malfoy fell in love.

When he was eighteen, he proposed.

He got down on one knee and slid a ring onto the hand he had held so many times.

The war was over, Voldemort was dead. She had finally escaped the nightmare that was Ron Weasley. She was lightly scarred from that bastard's hands, but she was finally free.

Or so they thought.

Three days before the wedding, he walked into the house to find it deadly silent.

He called her name, several times. When there was no response, he began to panic. Death Eaters were still on the loose, his own father among them. And they would love to kill a deserter's only love. 

But he was never prepared for what he found when he entered their bedroom.

She was spread eagled on their King sized bed. The satin sheets were thrown over her, but not neatly enough to cover the gaping stab wound in her chest.

He felt his heart wrench inside his chest, but he had lost his ability to cry long ago. He simply dropped onto the bed beside her and traced his fingers over her cold lips.

He didn't see the red-haired figure raising his wand behind his back.

And by the time he heard the curse spoken, it was too late.


End file.
